


Even in Darkness, Even in Blood

by apackofsmokes



Series: Clownin' Around [7]
Category: DCU, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Batman, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genderfluid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Masked Vigilantes, Mental Instability, Past Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apackofsmokes/pseuds/apackofsmokes
Summary: “So you’re back with him.” It's not a question. He saw it, felt it cut deeper than any blade Stiles had used. Twisting his insides, shredding his weakened heart. He turns away, shoulders tense, ignoring every instinct to shake Stiles until he relents and comes to his senses.Stiles’ face is unreadable but his voice sad, “I never left him.”





	Even in Darkness, Even in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, it's been a while, but the next part is already started so fingers crossed!

**_The Bowery, a back alley_ **

 

Stiles licks his lips, he tastes blood and sweat and the night’s heat, his body thrumming. Beacon is something else after the sun disappears. Haunted, almost. Dangerous, definitely.

This is what he imagines when others say they feel at home. It must be.

“Please! Please! Tell Joker I’ll–”

The man’s cries are cut off by Stiles’ bat to his face. Again and again. There’s no finesse, no showy dramatics. It’s been a few days since Theo strapped him down and reminded him what happens when the Joker is displeased.

Also his hair won’t unspike, so yes, he’s in a mood.

Stiles brings the weapon up, inspecting the gore. “I look like a carrier pigeon to you? Oh wait, you can't answer ‘cause you're _dead.”_

Clapping rings out from behind, and he turns with a sneer. It's only Theo.

Huh, the irony of that statement. _Only Theo_. He might as well have thought, ‘ _Only a scorpion the size of Metropolis’._

“Bravo, mon cher! Aren't you a sight.”

Stiles doesn't quite know what’s happening. Theo’s the one who sent him after this guy alone in the first place. It's nothing new, but this? Theo sneaking around Stiles? That’s fairly new.

“I thought you were busy?” _I thought I had time to myself to think about leather and green eyes and_ **_Derek._ **

Theo shrugs, walking into Stiles’ space, two fingers lifting his chin. He knows the cuts Theo sliced into him are already healed. Lydia is a genius for a reason. Nothing left but a faint pink line. This seems to be enough to have Theo frowning.

“Heard a shriek of terror, piqued my interest. Didn't necessarily know it was you, darling. Doing my dirty work. And look how dirty you’ve gotten.” Theo’s gaze wraps around his body like ribbons. Silky, taut. “My my… downright filthy.”

Stiles cocks his head and start to unbutton his pants.

Theo bites his lip, watching Stiles’ fingers pull his zipper down slow and steady. Each tooth coming apart in time with his heartbeat. Not even winded from the slaughter he just committed.

Voice catching on a purr, Theo halts his undressing with a raised hand. “As tempting as this is, I have come to tell you of business elsewhere. All done here?”

Stiles kicks the body on the ground nonchalantly. “I don't know, Boss. Got anything you'd like to add?”

“So touchy. I blame myself. I’ve spoiled you too much. Where are the rules, the discipline?”

Shoving the bat into Theo’s hands, Stiles walks past him to the street corner. Over his shoulder he asks, “The Narrows?” His pace unrelenting.

“Docks,” Theo answers, eyeing Stiles like Peter does a difficult puzzle. “Aren't you going to ask–”

“No. I'm sure I'll figure it out when I get there.”

Leaving Theo confused and growing more agitated by the second, Stiles smirks to himself. After all, it's only Theo.

 

*

 

  
Theo's pulse races under his fine-pressed suit, the copper smell of blood caught in his nose. The bat in his hands still warm despite the fact that Stiles was wearing gloves tonight.

Theo lets it dangle from his fingers, lost in thought. Of all the things that he remembers about their first meeting, the one that sticks, that he questions... is a pencil.  
  
A simple innocent tool. Some might've said the same about Stiles at the time. They'd be wrong.  
  
Stiles had walked in, tilting the world Theo knew, all pale skin and doe eyes. But in the corner of his ear was a sharpened pencil.  
  
The guards must have missed it in his chestnut tufts of hair, but Theo was quite observant. Knew at least six ways to kill the boy seated at the opposite end of the table in under a minute.  
  
But the more Stiles spoke and questioned, it was apparent he had uses, not just a pretty face.  
  
So while the thought of graphite and wood piercing Stiles' jugular was appealing, Theo let him live. Walked out the door first in fact, his back to the young intern.

Because after all, what kind of threat was Stiles Stilinski?

Snapping to the present, he overlooks the corpse left by his lover, in his name.

What kind of threat indeed.

 

  
*

Masked and armed, she watches the two from a hideaway ledge of the apartment slum. The leather of her jacket shields her from the humid wind whipping this high up; fishnets wrap around her legs like armor. Boots flat and gloves flexed for comfort, she watches.

Beacon is nothing like Star City. It's immoral, grotesque structures were held together with crime and corruption. It ruins people. It ruined her.

No, she didn't grow up here. But indirectly this place stole everything, everyone, she cared about.

Her attention refocuses on the men below speaking in harsh tones. The prettier of the two just having killed someone in cold blood, no hero to save him when it mattered. And she wasn't willing to blow her cover for gutter trash goons who turned to maniacs for cash.

The exchange doesn't last long, and she has decisions to make.

The clown – looking all the world like a demented, kicked dog – could surely lead her to Batman, of course. The enemies are never far from each other. But that seems even a bit too homicidal for her; a death wish is not her goal tonight.

Now, if the rumors were true, tailing Stilinski held much more clout. She didn't give a damn about their Shakespearean bullshit, but if exploiting it would get the job done. Let's call that plan B.

No matter the cost, she'd find Batman and get answers. Or scream Beacon apart, brick by decaying brick.

 

**_*_  
  
  
**

Liam Dunbar is a lot of things: angry, lonely, an orphan. But usually he isn't stupid. He says _usually_ because he's a teenager and does stupid shit like run away from every foster home he’s been placed in, or more currently – as in _now –_ he’s hunkered down out of sight from the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

One look and he can tell she's a vigilante or something in that ballpark. Not local though, at least not before tonight. The domino and black leather give it away more than anything.

He’s  _really_ trying not to think about her legs crisscrossed in barely-there tights. Being sixteen has never been such torture. His blood is already pumping from his nightly activities. How can he keep a clear head to not get caught if all he wants to do is drop down to his knees and thank any god who's listening? Or you know, jerk off behind a rooftop divide.

_Focus, Liam,_ he tells himself. Because he _has to_.

She’s unfamiliar and clearly following someone. That he knows, because he too is following someone, though no one specific. This is what he _does_.

Every night he sneaks along fire escapes and scales brick, his camera (the only thing left of his real parents) circling his neck. His hole-in-the-wall dump of a hideout covered from ceiling to rotting floorboard in photographs of heroes and villains and all things in between.

It's not his fault he’s obsessed. Honestly, you can't walk two feet in either direction in this city without tripping over a cape or cowl. In his sad world where adults are harsh and cruel… he needs this. Needs to be reminded that some people out there are doing good even for street rats like him.

Their mission, their colors. He believes in Batman and Robin. In every person risking their own lives to save others, getting nothing in return.

That, and he gets to watch Stiles Stilinski fuck his way through the city. He’s a teenager without the internet, give him a break.

Sometimes Stiles even shoots him a wink and shows his good side for the perfect picture. Liam might use one of those to submit as his application for the photography program at Beacon Academy. It's working title Seduce and Destroy.

Inside jokes with super villains, this is what keeps him going. Also stealing shit and selling it on the side to whichever gang pays the highest.

A street rat's got to eat.

The girl turns in his direction, a bright yellow bird printed on her hot as hell leather jacket shines. Ambient light from below making it reflective. He snaps a couple photos of her profile. Her hair flutters away from her face and her eyes narrow.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

Throwing himself back down he hears her feet hit a roof over, farther from where he’s panting and clutching his camera.

Flipping through the two pictures he captured on the small screen – beautiful, _breathtaking_ – he thinks he might’ve just fallen in love.

 

**_*_  
  
**

**_Across Town, The Triskele Theatre_ **

 

“We should really get back,” Isaac sighs, burrowing deeper under Scott’s arm. He doesn't want to seem ungrateful to Scott for trying to make amends, but he hates leaving the manor for longer than what dinner and a movie takes.

Possibly, that might relate to his past trauma and anxieties regarding his childhood or his time in the war, but who's to say?

His therapist, that's who, which his vigilante boyfriend is well aware of, but his heart was in the right place. To be frank though, he doesn't quite understand the purpose. Just because Scott apologized for bringing Stilinski back into their lives doesn't negate the actual problem.

That being, Stiles himself.

Isaac could compare him to one of those ancient biblical plagues, like a swarm of locust or rivers of blood, but he’s a gentleman.

But that doesn't change the destruction that the up-and-coming villain has wrought throughout his family. The people who took in a small boy being abused and tortured by his father and had shown him love and protection.

If this was a petty vendetta then he’d let it go and allow Derek to be selfish without a passing thought. Unfortunately, Isaac can't help but feel as though a Trojan horse has gladly been welcomed – again – into their home.

He knows Derek isn't the only one who’s heart was broken when Stiles left. Scott had lost his dearest friend, his brother.

Isaac had experienced that himself with Camden. Mourning was never easy, but to move on, it must be done.

“Why? You afraid Derek’ll let the city burn without you in his ear?” Scott teases back, placing a kiss to Isaac’s curls.

_Yes._

“No, I just… what if Stiles is there? I don't like him alone in the manor, the cave more specifically.”

Scott snorts, “You mean in Derek, more specifically.” Then sobers realizing that they still aren't on the best of terms despite this outing. “Either way,” he stresses, “I'm sure everything’s fine. Derek can take care of himself and Beacon.” His eyes go wide, “Not that you're useless!” A palm to the face, “I'm sorry, Zaac. I'm fudging this all up. I love you, you're perfect. You keep us going.”

Damn this man and his awkward adorable fumbling words.

“I love you too,” Isaac breathes into the summer air. “You aren't fudging up anything, doofus. I just want us safe. You’re all out there every night narrowly avoiding death, I'd hate for you to be taken down in your own house.”

Scott bites his lip. “I know, okay? I get it. But I'm not worried.”

That’s part of the problem. Isaac looks off in the street, shadows around every corner. While the city had Batman to protect it, who protected Batman?

“You should be.”

He would. He owed that to the Hales and especially to Derek. The cost was irrelevant.

 

**_*_ **

 

**_The Docks_ **

 

Stiles sits, legs crossed, using his finger to draw shapes into one of the pools of blood on the floor. A metal scent cloys the air in the already frigid warehouses, the smell having nothing to do with the material it was built out of. He's humming a song he forgets the name of. It's sweet and reminds him of his mother. Like calla lilies, the kind Lydia shrouds herself with when enticing him. The memory of Claudia Stilinski lingering like a ghost in the corner of his subconscious.

Thoughts of her and the amount of wet red surrounding him, is most likely what sent him spiraling this time around. As if his mind needed reasons and logic to betray him.

He's seeing an opaque version of himself, of what he looked like when interning at Eichen, drift into his line of vision.

“ _Classic post traumatic stress disorder. Your mother’s death and the act of you witnessing the aftermath clearly affect your decision making skills and mental health. To be frank, you're having an episode, Stiles. Do you understand?”_

Should he answer himself? Does he already know what he's going to say? Does it matter?

“Yes.”

“ _Good.”_ Hallucination him smiles, kneeling in front of him gently, like he used to when calming patients. Can his face even make a gesture that kind anymore? “ _You aren't well, Stiles.”_

_“_ Was I ever?” He asks out loud, but he’s alone again. If hallucinating himself even counts as company.

And a dozen dead bodies.

Honestly, he’s not quite sure what Theo sent him here to do, but the second the gang holed up here spotted him – more like he let himself be seen – it was a bloodbath.

The brawl was quick, over before bullet shells bounced off the ground. He wasn't in a playful mood. Wanting it _over._ Wanting _everything_ over.

Since seeing Derek again it's been one clusterfuck after another. His sanity, what little he clings to, disappearing fast.

“ _Don't listen to the good doctor, sweetheart. This,”_ not real Theo surveys the destruction, “ _is how we play the game. They all assume I taught you these naughty little tricks. But we both know that isn't entirely true.”_

Stiles blinks and the figment is gone. Taking a deep breath, eyes closed, he drags bloodied hands through his hair, “You aren't crazy. You aren't your mother.”

“ _My boy, would that be so awful?”_

He shuts his eyes tighter to the point of his head pounding. His scalp burning from yanking at the dyed locks.

“You aren't here. You're dead.” The sound of his voice is a train wreck. Sobs catch in his chest, throat raw from holding back screams.

Where did his emptiness run off to? Is this his punishment for wanting too much? For taking and taking and killing and bringing a city to its knees? For putting himself on his?

“ _You caused this, Mieczysław. The least you can do is look at me.”_

_“_ I can't!” he wails. She isn't here. She. Isn't. Here.

“ _Look at me!”_

He opens his eyes, knows in his head she's not really here. Hasn't been for fourteen years.

“Mom,” he rasps. The word feels like nails in a coffin he hasn't visited since he was a child.

His mother was beautiful once, before she wasted away to insanity. Her brain eating itself, ravaging through every cell that made her the person he loved. The person who loved _him._

The thing he's imagining is not that. It's a horribly vivid revisiting of when he saw the blood that he himself carried in his own veins, soaking her nightgown, her bed. A straight razor dropped carelessly to the floor by weak hands.

It was almost mirror like, he thought. Her lifeless eyes his exact shade, moles dotting her even paler than usual skin. At eight years old, he morbidly wondered if he’d look the same when he died. Would he be splashed with crimson as well?

“ _You caused this!”_ She shrieks, repeating the same thing she'd scream at him on her worst days of sickness. That he was a monster, that he was killing her. She'd ask his father how she ever gave birth to such a demon. And couldn't he see that Stiles was going to destroy them all?

Before he can speak the doors to the warehouse swing open and police flicker on flashlights, covering their mouths in disgust.

One coughs, taking in the carnage, “What kind of monster would do this?”

Stiles stands just in time for the beams to hit him, his clothes torn and bloody, his smile thrilled.

“That’d be me, fellas,” he coos. Enough reflecting. He has shit to do, people to dispose of.

A monster's work is never done.

 

**_Hale Manor_ **

 

When you spend every hour of the night cloaked and protecting the city streets, things tend to… pile up.

Or you piss off the one person who does the dishes and you have to do them yourself. That's why Derek finds himself loading the dishwasher this morning instead of doing ceiling sit-ups or literally anything else. The sink had been overflowing with Cora’s tea mugs and Scott’s cereal bowls, one spoon away from crashing to the hardwood floor in disaster.

Stiles watches, leaning against the opposite side of the island in the kitchen, favoring his left and Derek doesn’t want to ask.

It’s been a month and a half since their foray in Crime Alley, and he’s at the end of his rope. And not the reinforced adhesive type he carries in his belt.  

Some (Isaac) would say Stiles’ appearance was an eyesore among the stainless steel appliances and marble countertops.

Derek would tear down the entire room with his bare hands if it could keep Stiles right where he was.

Neither had spoken since Stiles waltzed in with air of casualty that set Derek’s nerves on edge. Like he didn’t kick Derek’s ass while Theo watched. Like his words “ _I'm coming back”_ didn't change everything.

“So you’re back with him.” It's not a question. He saw it, felt it cut deeper than any blade Stiles had used. Twisting his insides, shredding his weakened heart. He turns away, shoulders tense, ignoring every instinct to shake Stiles until he relents and comes to his senses.

Stiles’ face is unreadable but his voice sad, “I never left him.”

Derek throws down the plate he was holding and it crashes back into the sink. “Goddamnit, Stiles!” The small flinch Stiles gives, makes him want to laugh and cry and break something else. Instead he drags a hand over his mouth. “Why are you doing this, after everything? Why are you doing this to me _again_? You agreed. Or was that a trick? You can't, _I_ can't–you said things were different now, but it's happening again. You're choosing him over me.”

“No! Derek, no.” Stiles rounds the kitchen, reaching out to him and cups his jaw, eyes holding sincerity that Derek wishes wasn't there. “I'm not choosing anyone, that's the point. You said it yourself, I can't.”

“That doesn’t make any  _sense_ ,” Derek stresses.

"I told you I'd come back."  
  
"Yeah, well maybe you shouldn't have. And I sure as hell shouldn't want you to. You were right,” he concedes. What's left to argue about anymore? Even at his closest, Stiles will always be just out of reach. “You aren't who I fell in love with. That person doesn't exist anymore. Neither does the person I was. I shouldn't love you after what you put me through. But damn it Stiles, I love you more than I ever have. Just looking at you, I can't breathe. What... what does that say about me?"  
  
"It says you're only human, Der.” Stiles answers, face soft, free of makeup for once. If anyone was human between them it was Stiles, even two toned and half crazed on his best day. “You're allowed to have things for yourself. The city doesn't own every aspect of you and the Bat doesn't either."  
  
"Is that what you tell yourself?” Derek all but shouts, breaking Stiles’ grip. There’s sadness in the fall of his hands. “That you're only human and allowed to take and twist anything you want? Life doesn't work that way. I don't work that way."

Derek knows what he's saying contradicts his own thoughts. Fighting Stiles is fighting his own feelings _for_ him. He's furious enough to sprint out of his own house instead of staring at a lover who isn't his. Somehow, impossibly, his rage over Kate and what she did to his family pales in comparison.

Stiles evokes more emotion in Derek than his family's _murderer._ Suitable that he loved them both too damn much for his and Beacon’s own good. How cruel that the only two people Derek has allowed to see and touch his weaknesses, tore them out his chest and dropped them at his feet.

“You want me to go?" Stiles asks, arms crossed, agitation building as he taps his fingers on his elbow.

It's an unconscious familiar tell Derek use to adore. Now, it's driving him out his mind. "No! That's the problem! I never want you to leave again. But... I still don't know what I'm doing, what _we_ are doing. There's nothing morally ambiguous about sleeping with a known criminal in either of my lives. I just–didn't you feel anything?” He barrels on, seeing the quick retort on Stiles’ lips. “When we were fighting back to back making the city safer, didn't you feel good? Better even?”  
  
Stiles shrugs, "Felt about the same as not helping them."  
  
"I just thought–”  
  
"What, that you were reforming me? That a few good deeds and saved citizens would make me less _evil_?” The word rolls off Stiles’ tongue and Derek feels the it permeate the room.

None of them have ever outright called Stiles evil. Scott probably couldn't fathom such a thing. It was reserved for murderers and rapists. The sickest scum of Beacon. The irredeemable.

Theo Raeken was evil, not Stiles. Never Stiles. At least, not to Derek.

Stiles doesn't pause though, the word having its intended effect. “Why? Because if I'm not killing and stealing, then the caped crusader doesn't have to feel bad about fucking me? _That’s_ not how life works, Derek. The fact of the matter is, out there?" Stiles bobs his chin towards the city in the distance, "I could rescue a bus full of kids and still be thrown in Eichen. That's how being a fugitive works. Heroes can't erase villainy once it's committed, only try and stop it from happening again. Hate the sin, B-man, love the sinner.” Stiles smirks, "Isn't that what you said? That you'd never stop loving me? Prove it and stop trying to fix me."  
  
Derek white-knuckles the counter at his back, “I can’t meet you in the blood, Stiles. That’s not a middle for me.”

Stalking forward, Stiles says while gently uncurling Derek’s fingers, “Then I’ll find you in whatever darkness is.” It isn’t a concession, more like a threat.

Stiles puts the hands in his own over narrow hips. Derek takes a breath, surprising and unsurprising himself with how little it takes for Stiles to make him give in.

His thumb brushes jagged letters carved into skin. The _T_ and _R_ taunting him. And Derek understands what Stiles means about the darkness. It’s inside him. Them.

_Okay,_ he thinks.  _This is where we’ll meet._

With renewed vigor Derek sweeps Stiles’ leg and brings them both to the ground. Stiles giggles when his shoulders hit, then moans when Derek’s entire body weight presses him against the hardwood floor.

Stiles bites the inside of his own cheek and fuck, Derek ignites.

“You gonna hurt me, Der?” There’s a soft pause and Stiles whispers, “Everyone always does.”

Derek runs his palms under Stiles’ shirt, pulling it up over his head and using it to tie his wrists together. The restraint could easily be undone if Stiles was opposed, but he must sense that Derek needs at least the semblance of control. Hurting Stiles is never something he wants to do. His pleasure is not reliant on Stiles’ or anyone else’s pain. Despite that, he can’t control his mouth that follows the marking of dots across Stiles’ collarbone and chest.

“Always the victim.”

He regrets the words the second they’re filling the space between them, feels it in every centimeter as Stiles goes rigid beneath him. He wants to say he doesn't mean it. But he’s already opened himself up to all the anger he’s been carrying. Suddenly, it’s so much heavier than he remembers. Almost pulls himself down harder on top of Stiles, who inhales at the added pressure. He wants to scream _you left, and I was dying until I saw you again_. To scream _you left, and I’m still here._

A minute passes, he expects Stiles to throw him off and have some kind of sharpened blade in the vicinity of his balls. Instead when he takes a tentative glance, he sees Stiles’ face is blank, turned to the side as he stares at an ornate drawer handle. When he starts to speak, Derek can’t look away.

“I was fucking stupid in the beginning, y’know. I thought Theo would give me the type of love I craved. The kind of love that I couldn’t find here, with you.” His eyes bore into Derek’s then. Those golden irises, haunted and empty, like so many of the patients roaming Eichen. “But the only thing I got were my own screams reverberating off cement and scars bone deep. So I loved him enough for the both of us. I can–I can love you that way too now. I think I’ve finally figured it out.”  
  
"Stiles..." Derek whisper horrified, cupping Stiles face as if it were glass about to shatter. He's never heard Stiles sound so absolutely destroyed by what Theo had done. It was always brushed off, like he had undergone torture of his own volition. Like it was an honor. "I don't want that kind of love. It's not–"  
  
"Not what? Right? Safe? Sane? Neither am I! Neither is this goddamn hellhole of a city!" Stiles takes a calming breath and looks up under his lashes, eyes molten but returned from his nightmares, "I screamed for you, Scott... my dad. No one can be saved from Theo unless he allows it. I've learned. When will you?"

Derek’s answer is a rough kiss tinged with the coppery flavor of impact. Stiles gives just as much, his tongue and teeth working Derek into a frenzy. There’s too many clothes and not enough everything else, and maybe if Stiles didn’t wear such tight fucking pants, he wouldn’t have to peel them down each cream colored leg like they’re held on with super glue.

Frustration builds until he detaches himself from Stiles’ mouth with a growl that makes him yank at Derek’s hair to return. He knew that Stiles couldn’t keep his hands away for long. Too much kinetic energy in that one.

After Stiles’ boots and pants are tossed across the room, Stiles tries bringing him up once more, “Okay, back. Come back to me.”

Emotion slams into Derek, memories that if he let them rush through they’d knock him completely out of the moment. But the man – villain, murderer – he loves is naked and begging in the middle of his kitchen floor before noon on a Tuesday. The sun cascading over his pale skin, ink and scars and moles making up every dream Derek’s tried and failed to ignore over the past year.

He strips out of his shirt, bending one of Stiles’ knees over his shoulder and biting the inner thigh. Stiles gasps and Derek catches his other leg so both are wrapped around his neck in what he has no doubt could be used as a killing move. They know it’s a dangerous game they’re playing for more reasons than this, but as Derek trails open mouthed kisses down to where Stiles wants him most, he’s infallible.  

Stiles squeaks like a mouse when Derek’s tongue licks hot and wet at his hole. He always does, the tiniest of noise before he gets _loud_. Derek wonders if he can feel the knowing smile against his skin.

The acoustics of the manor kitchen raises Stiles’ volume to where it’s the only thing Derek hears. Everything else is static. Just background noise to his tongue working Stiles into a gorgeous mess of shrieks and heavy breathing. His fingertips trace along Stiles’ cock feather light, and though it seems gentle, he can tell Stiles hates it as much as he loves it.

Theo may bring him agony, but Derek’s sweetness can be just as vengeful.

Stiles fists his own hair, trying his best to ride Derek’s face, “Fuck me, god Der, c’mon just fuck me already. I’m _dying_.”

Derek tongues a flat line up Stiles’ balls. “No.”

It’s cruel and he half expects Stiles to flip them and get his way no matter what. Derek’s blood spikes with heat knowing Stiles is only under him because he wants to be. Overpowering each other during sex has never been a negative for either of them.

Instead, Stiles reaches down to where Derek’s mouth is fucking into his ass and pushes in two fingers, matching Derek’s rhythm. The sight nearly makes him come too soon. Those long dexterous fingers that cause mayhem and destruction, thrusting and twisting for the perfect angle.

“Derek, Derek please. If you fuck me right this second I’ll tell you the date, time, and who's buying the next weapon shipment hitting the docks. But I swear to fucking Christ if you do not put your dick in me I’ll buy them myself and distribute to all of my contacts like it’s goddamn Christmas. Do you hear me, Derek Hale?”

Derek stares from between Stiles’ legs for what seems like eternity, internally debating. He bites his lip in thought and Stiles’ pupils somehow dilate more.

He sighs, losing his pants and underwear, “You're not prepped enough. It’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”

With shut eyes, Stiles nods vigorously, “Yeah, I know. I want it to.”

“Sti–“

“Do you want the info or not?” Stiles snaps.

_No. I want you. Your love and disgust. Your joy and misery. I want all the things that make you… you,_ he thinks as Stiles forces him to climb up his body, taking back all semblance of control. Both wearing nothing but raw expressions, eyes locked. “I don’t want to hurt you. I meant that.”

Stiles brushes one hand down his scruff, “I know.” Before Derek can reply he feels Stiles' other hand wrap around his cock, lining them up then all Derek feels is tight bliss.

A livewire shoots up his spine as Stiles cries out beautifully and wastes no time rocking them together.

“Stiles, _Stiles._ ”

“Fuck, Der. Move. Move, Derek. Let me have you. I’m fine. I like it. God, I love it. But I’d love it even more if you _moved._ ”

Derek starts fucking him in earnest, Stiles’ back arching off the floor with each slide of him entering his body until Derek’s sits up against the cabinets, pulling Stiles onto his lap.

“Better?” Derek asks, gruffly.

Stiles’ laugh is syrupy, “Yeah, big guy. I’ll take it from here.” Then he does, guiding Derek’s hands to his ass as he bounces, Derek’s face in the crook of his neck where bruises are stark and bitten.  

Stiles fucked the way he fought: underhanded, dirty, manipulative. He knew just how to get you in the perfect position. Every move a juxtapose, calculated but wild. Tempered and a massacre. No survivors, no mercy. Undiluted, Stiles didn't make a bit of sense. His being a contradiction to what you thought the second before.  
  
Derek was drunk on it. An addict.  
  
In a world where he could decipher who was who by unseen footsteps at fifty feet away, it was exhilarating.

They don’t last much longer after that. Derek holds Stiles tight against his chest and bucks up maybe twice before Stiles’ is scratching up his sides, leaving behind bright red lines in the midst of his orgasm. Derek follows, spilling into Stiles with a gasp and a dizzy rush of euphoria.

Not a minute after they catch their breaths does a shout come from the foyer, “If you two are quite done I’ve got lunch to prepare!”

Stiles scrunches his nose in disgust, “I hate him.”

Adorable.

Derek snorts, unable to form words, or thoughts past the fact that they’re both naked, covered in come and still joined in a shared living space usually occupied by three or more people at once.

Isaac walks in around the time Stiles is buttoning his pants. “People eat in here you know.”

Stiles gives a winning smile, “They sure do.”

Isaac makes himself and Scott a sandwich and tea, leaving the second he’s done with a look of disdain. Derek’s going to have to work his ass off for this and Isaac didn’t even see the broken plate yet.  
  
"You'll have to get along with him eventually."  
  
Stiles huffs, "What? No. No I do not. I'm here for you. Not a pretentious douche who wears scarves in seventy degree weather."  
  
"Not even for Scott?"  
  
"Hey now, watch it. You can't use Scott's sad puppy eyes by proxy. It's disrespectful is what it is."

 

*

 

That Sunday night had found them in the same area of the manor’s kitchen after cutting patrol short and Stiles creeping past security like a ghost.

Stiles was naked, wrapped in the sheet from Derek’s bed, Derek in a haste put on pair of pajama pants. Both giggling and feeding each other piece of a fruit salad that had been prepared for Monday’s breakfast.

All Derek can taste is strawberries and Stiles' mouth over his. Melon, and Stiles’ skin. White grapes and Stiles’ pulse under his tongue and teeth. These focal points could direct him to hell and he’d go willingly, undeterred.

Is that not what love is? Devotion? Faith?

Now though for sure, he knows it’s something to cling to when things get complicated again. And they always do. But at this moment Beacon and Theo are fleeting thoughts as Stiles traces pomegranate stained fingers down his chest. Looking like blood, smelling sweet and fresh.

Stiles peers up from under heavy lashes, “You’re a mess.”

Derek ruffles Stiles’ sex-mussed hair, making his voice ridiculously high pitched, “‘I’m just hungry, Derek. I swear I won’t try and fuck you in the kitchen again, Derek! Fruits are innocent, Derek!’ You’re such a shit, ya know?”

Stiles throws an orange slice, “I do not sound like that!” Then laughs at his own shriek that does indeed _sound like that._ “You’re an asshole.”

“Says you.”

“Says everyone.” Stiles bites his full bottom lip, “Kiss me and I’ll forgive you.”

“Well with an offer like that…” Derek leans in and pecks Stiles on the lips, reaching into the open fridge to grab the spray can of whipped cream.

Stiles’ eyes darken with warning and he knows he made the right choice. As opposed to a few seconds later when Stiles trips him up with the sheet and sprints up the stair calling, “Race you!” as he goes.

“Where are you going?!”

Brown, red, and black hair peeks out from the doorframe. “Bed! You’re the one who said no more kitchen fucking.”

That was him, wasn’t it? Damn.

Vaulting over the island counter, it’s not long before he’s chasing the man he loves through his family home trying not to wake them.

 

*

 

**_BCPD, Old Beacon_ **

 

“I don’t understand.”

The commissioner twists the cap back on his flask, “What’s not to understand, girly? I can’t help you find someone who, by all claims in this department, doesn’t exist.”

Hayden grits her teeth at the _endearment,_ stopping herself from actively beating this lush of a detective’s ass. “You have a goddamn spotlight with a bat on the roof and you’re gonna tell me no one will confirm his existence? Are you stupid? Do you think _I’m_ stupid?”

“What I think is that I need a vacation to the Bahamas and you need to not sniff around a man twice your age and has more criminals on his tail than Eichen has cells. You look like a sweet kid under all that leather and attitude, but this ain’t wherever you’re from. Or where you wanna be, do you understand that much?”

Bobby Finstock was slowly edging his way towards the top of her shit list.

“I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid of some clown or any of this place’s freaks,” she bites out.

Finstock gets a sad faraway look in his glazed eyes and parentally squeezes her hand that was resting on his desk, “Honey, you should be.”

Fuck this incompetent police force. It’s as much of a joke as she assumed. With that thought, she rips her hand away and storms out the office. She tried the clean way… time to get down and dirty with the underground.

Hopefully she’ll still be the same person coming out as the one who went in.   


**Author's Note:**

> [the trash blog :o](http://smokesforwolves.tumblr.com) where there's excerpts and edits for this series :D


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